


Contradictions

by PhoenixGryffin



Category: Coriolanus - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sex, Soldiers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 16:17:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10251224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixGryffin/pseuds/PhoenixGryffin
Summary: Caius Martius Coriolanus is the same as he always was, agnomen notwithstanding; when Lartius finds himself gaspingOh God, Martiushe has to correct himself, remind himself that though this is Martius who’s making love to him it’s also someone else, someone new and different and more powerful than ever before. Martius is Martius is not Martius.(Caius Martius/Titus Lartius, before and after Corioli.)





	

Caius Martius does not make love; in truth, Titus Lartius doesn’t think he truly knows the meaning of the word _love_. Oh, Martius loves battle, loves his mother, even loves—in his own ferocious eye-gleaming way—Tullus Aufidius, the Volscian general. But love as a noun, love as something small and gentle that occurs naturally—this is the love that Lartius is sure he does not know.

Caius Martius does not make love. Caius Martius fucks—rhythmically, quickly, never allowing himself to show a moment of weakness. Not even in the moments after—when they’re both lying still, exhausted, and Lartius is tracing soft post-coital circles onto whatever inch of Martius’ skin he can reach—does he show anything but his characteristic aggression.

Lartius has never been with anyone else like this. He hadn’t expected it; that first time, when Martius had roughly ushered him into his bed without a word, Lartius had been tentative, unsure whether he really wanted to find out what lay beneath that hard stony exterior. But their moments of brief shared intimacy have come and gone, and Lartius knows him no better than he did before they started coupling.

It always occurs after a battle. Martius can never stand the majority of the Roman army, and it doesn’t take much for him to curse them all before he storms away back to his own tent. After a time, Lartius comes to him, rough voice brought down to a softer cadence; it’s his own way of trying to calm Martius down. Things proceed in their usual fashion, though Martius never seems to be any calmer after it’s over.

Sometimes, as Lartius lets his fingers wander over every scar on Martius’ body, he wonders whether Caius Martius, Rome’s hero, truly has any feelings. He’s the pride of Rome, her best soldier, but what is he really when stripped down to his core? There are brief moments when Lartius wants to shake him, scream at him until there’s nothing left but something fragile and vulnerable. But that would never do. Rome needs its hero to be perfect. Titus Lartius does not need an imperfect lover.

Still, though, Lartius wonders. Lartius wonders, and Lartius dreams. Lartius wakes up from nightmares sometimes, nightmares where he twitches and screams and watches his entire army die in front of him a thousand times before he wakes up sobbing in Martius’s arms. Does Martius have nightmares? Does he dream at all? Lartius can’t say—the few times he’s seen Martius allow himself sleep, he’s been completely rigid, immobile. Inhuman, one might say.

The two of them are damaged, or at least that’s how Lartius has always seen it. For him, every new scar serves as a physical reminder of another piece of him that’s fallen away, never to be recovered. It is only a matter of time before Titus Lartius shatters entirely. Martius, though—Martius seems to grow stronger with each scar he obtains, as if he’s absorbed the life force of those whom he’s killed. And maybe he has. Lartius certainly wouldn’t put it past him.

After Corioli, after their wounds have been treated, after the town has been taken, Lartius finds himself in Mar—no, not Martius, _Coriolanus_ , he’s Coriolanus now—in Coriolanus’ tent once again. All roads lead back here, it seems.

Coriolanus doesn’t mention the new name. Lartius hadn’t expected him to. Caius Martius Coriolanus is the same as he always was, agnomen notwithstanding; when Lartius finds himself gasping _Oh_ _God, Martius_ he has to correct himself, remind himself that though this is Martius who’s making love to him it’s also someone else, someone new and different and more powerful than ever before. Martius is Martius is not Martius.

_Coriolanus,_ cries Lartius, sharply breathing in and out as his lover leaves barely visible marks on his skin. They are a tangle of sweat and heavy breathing and maybe a bit of blood as well, pleasure and pain intermingled. Coriolanus’ hands wrenching Lartius’ shoulder forward, his mouth on Lartius’ neck, the thick musky scent of him everywhere—all of it is intoxicating, and painful as it can be, Lartius would give anything for these moments to last forever.

When it’s over, Lartius’ hands return to their old habit of tracing Coriolanus’ scars. Though he’s careful to avoid the new wounds on the shoulder and left arm, everywhere else is and always has been fair game. There’s a particularly knobby scar on the right inner thigh that Lartius had never noticed before; he softly traces it up and down, hoping for a twitch of arousal or—better yet—vulnerability from his partner, but as always, there is nothing. Caius Martius Coriolanus is immobile, inhuman, and Titus Lartius keeps his small sorrows to himself. Such is the way it has always been.

But no longer; this is the last time the two of them are alone together. After that, there is the consulship, there is the banishment, there is the betrayal. Curled up and shivering slightly in his solitary bedchamber, Lartius tries very hard not to think about Tullus Aufidius and Coriolanus with their legs twined together, sharing something that Lartius had previously thought was his and his alone. Maybe Coriolanus shows vulnerability with Aufidius, twitches and murmurs and whispers sweet things into his ear, and maybe—no. No use thinking about things like that.

When the news comes that Coriolanus has been killed, Titus Lartius feels a dagger pierce through his heart. He’s not sure whether it’s a blade of vindictive pleasure or sorrow; after all, both hurt the same way. But Lartius carries on, gives the requisite speech about how tragic the whole ordeal was, punches one of his soldiers in an unexplainable fit of vindictive rage—in short, he continues living in the only way he knows how. There’s a funeral. Lartius does not attend.

Lartius does not visit the grave until two weeks later, when the dead withered leaves have started to cover the ground. No one else is around. Fitting. He sees the small grave labeled CAIUS MARTIUS CORIOLANUS, and suddenly there’s a hollow gap between his ribs, a feeling he couldn’t articulate even if he wanted to.

Grief is an odd thing when experienced in real life; it is not large and demanding but rather small and painful and never quiet. Titus Lartius thinks about love, about how it’s not very different from grief after all.

He leaves a blood-red rose by the grave. Roses have thorns. It is enough.


End file.
